by Gary Tenuta
The next thing he knew, they were walking down the street on their way to the Dragon Palace. The thing that mystified him more than the fact that he’d just had dinner and drinks with the one woman whom he’d often wished he’d never met, was the fact that he’d actually enjoyed those two hours. Maybe the first two hours he’d enjoyed in weeks. Months? Their conversation started with talk about the case and about Cowl and something about that Cromwell character but soon, somehow, they were talking about music––what they liked, what they didn’t like––and, before he knew it, he was bragging about his daughter, Sarah, and that she was due home from music camp in just a couple days and how he couldn’t wait to see her. The rest was a bit of a fog.
He slouched back into the couch and took a swig from the bottle. Ravenwood’s not so bad, he thought. A little weird. Great legs. He reached for the remote to click on the TV, then the phone rang.
“Yeah, Kane here. What? Are you sure? What hospital? Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
He grabbed his cell phone and called Ravenwood as he flew out the door.
***
Ravenwood was waiting outside the front of Virginia Mason Hospital when Kane arrived.
He pushed the door open for her and followed her in. “How the hell do you always manage to show up ahead of me?”
She flashed him a wink. “Broomstick.”
They hurried down the hall toward the elevator. When they got there, the doors slid open and Wheeler stepped out.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Wheeler said. “Glad they got hold of you. I was just leaving.”
“So what’s the story?” Kane asked. “Is it Cowl?”
“Yeah, it’s him all right. Gunshot wound to the head. He’s in a coma.”
“A coma?”
“Yeah. That’s all I know. There’s a doctor up there with him right now. Dr. Halverson, I think his name is.” He pulled his note pad out and checked it. “Yeah, Halverson. He’ll fill you in. You got the room number?”
“Yeah, thanks. Go home. Get some sleep.”
Wheeler left and they took the elevator to the second floor and headed down the hall to room 207.
“Even the room number fits,” Kane said.
Ravenwood turned and looked at him as their hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. “What?”
“Two plus seven. Nine.”
“Why, Lieutenant. I am impressed.”
Kane paused when they got to the room. “Yeah. Scary, ain’t it? You must be rubbing off on me.” He pushed the door open.
The doctor looked up from his patient’s chart and Kane flashed his badge.
“Lieutenant,” the doctor said. He hung the chart on the end of the bed and walked over to greet them. “I was told you were coming.”
Kane introduced Ravenwood and cast a glance over the doctor’s shoulder. “Well, well. The magickal musician. Sleeping like a baby.”
Cowl was hooked up to the standard array of machines and the top of his head was wrapped in crisp white bandages.
“So,” Kane said, “what’s the prognosis? He gonna live?”
The bottom line of Dr. Halverson’s long and complicated reply was that Cowl’s comatose condition was not a direct result of the gunshot wound as the bullet had only grazed his temple. The more likely cause was the blow to the head when he fell onto the hardwood floor. After administering a series of tests, Cowl’s condition registered a fairly high mark on the Glascow coma scale. The doctor explained that meant the chances of recovering from his unconscious state were fair to good.
Kane shook his head. “Fair to good. So what does that mean, exactly?”
The doctor ushered them out of the room as he explained that the patient could wake up as soon as tomorrow or the next day or it could be weeks, possibly even months. There was no way to know for sure.
After a few more questions, Kane and Ravenwood thanked the doctor and took the elevator back down to the lobby.
“Well, this is a hell of a development,” Kane said. “But it might turn out to be of some benefit.”
Ravenwood nodded. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“There you go again.”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious. If Cowl’s still in a coma two days from now, and the day goes by without another incident…”
“It would be a good indicator that Cowl is, in fact, our killer. But if some preacher does keel over that day, branded with weird symbols, his pants down to his ankles and a Batman coin in his mouth…”
“Then we’re back to square one without a suspect.”
“Except maybe Cromwell.”
Ravenwood pursed her lips. “Hmm… I don’t know.”
“Well, in any case, now we’ve got another problem.”
“Yeah. Who shot Rye Cowl?”
CHAPTER 38: The Next Day
10:00 a.m.
The glorious morning sun streaming in through Peter Kane’s bedroom window was immediately devoured by the dark storm of terror and confusion swirling around inside the old preacher’s head. The turmoil had become unbearable.
Another fitful, nearly sleepless night had passed, pushing him one day closer to the horrific fate he knew awaited him. There was no way out, no one to turn to for help.
Several times he wrestled with the idea of calling his son but what good would it do? Yes, he knew the identity of the killer and, yes, that would help bring an end to the murders and, yes, it would even save his own wretched life. But Brian would want to know how he knows all this and then he’d have to confess his horrendous deeds. Not that it would be much of a shock to the hardened Lieutenant. Still, the very thought of confessing his sins to anyone, least of all to his own son, caused his stomach to twist into knots. He couldn’t do it. Even if it meant he’d be saving his own life from an unthinkable end. He just couldn’t do it. He shook the idea out of his head.
His son hated him for what he’d done. They hadn’t spoken to each other in years. How could he have done such a horrible thing to his own son? Why had he done it to any of the boys? He couldn’t help himself. The urge would rise out of nowhere, dark, overwhelming and beyond his control and it made him feel… powerful…and wretched at the same time. Afterward he would pray and it would be okay because God always forgave him. He had to believe God forgave him because he knew that God knew that he couldn’t forgive himself any more than he could forgive his own uncle, his father’s brother, for passing the curse on to him. He hated his uncle for that. Hated him.
He peeled away the sweat-soaked sheets and maneuvered himself into a sitting position and let his mostly useless, skinny legs dangle over the edge of the bed. He needed a distraction. He needed to clear his head. He grabbed the TV remote from the nightstand and gave it a click. The small TV on the dresser across the room lit up. Channel-4 News was on:
…like Seattle’s going to be in for another scorcher today with temperatures reaching nearly ninety-five degrees in some of the outlying areas. The lows tonight…
As the weatherman droned on, Peter Kane stared at the upper drawer of the nightstand for several minutes, then leaned over and pulled it open. The .22 caliber snub-nose revolver he’d purchased years ago was loaded and waiting to defend him against an intruder, any intruder. It had been loaded and waiting since the day he’d purchased it.
He reached down and picked up the weapon, felt the weight of it in his hand. He knew somewhere Rodney Duckworth was planning to take the life of victim number eight, just two days from now. I could stop it from happening. I could help save someone’s life, for God’s sake. All it would take is a call to Brian. If I don’t do something… I’ll be next. But I can’t do it. God help me, I can’t do it.
He clenched his eyes tight, tears seeped out, streaming down the crevasses of his weathered face. A soft, pitiful moan rattled up from his throat. His stomach convulsed as a sickening mix of shame and guilt washed through him, not just for the things he’d done in the past but for the cowardly, self-serving act he was about to commit. He hated himsel
f even more than he hated his uncle. He hated himself even more than he was hated by his own son. He was trapped in a web of hate, guilt, shame, and fear. There was only one way out. He slowly turned the gun toward himself and jammed the cold steel barrel up under his chin. His hand was shaking as his finger found the trigger and began to squeeze.
…has learned that Rye Cowl, the lead singer of the band, Mega Therion, was shot yesterday…
The old pastor’s eyes snapped open, his finger froze on the trigger.
Two of the band members found him at his home, alive but unconscious…
He lowered the gun. Had he heard right? He exchanged the revolver for the remote and turned up the volume.
… was rushed to Virginia Mason Hospital where he is reportedly in a coma. No further details have been released and police are not commenting on rumors that this incident is somehow connected to the death of Pastor Martin St. Martin. You may recall, St. Martin was the clergyman who organized a large protest against Cowl and his band a couple of weeks ago but was mysteriously killed at the concert hall just hours before the concert was scheduled to…
He clicked off the TV and stared at the blank screen. His dazed reflection stared back at him as his thoughts raced in circles trying to grasp the not-so-subtle implications of this development. The deep creases in his brow gradually softened as it dawned on him what this could mean. God does move in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform. That young man’s death would be my salvation.
He carefully slid from the edge of the bed and lowered himself to his knees. He’d prayed for many things over the course of his troubled life but he’d never prayed for someone’s death and he didn’t know if he could do it now. Would he be forgiven for praying for the death of another human being? That he was even thinking such a thing caused him to tremble and the tears flowed once more. He cried out to God for an answer but none came. God was leaving it up to him.
CHAPTER 39
Later That Night…
Harlan Bodine’s attention was glued to the 11 o’clock news.
…again, there are few details but we’ll bring you updates on this story as the information becomes available. Sandra Patterson, reporting live from Virginia Mason Hospital. Back to…
Harlan got up and nervously paced the room. Cowl was alive? How could that be? He poured himself a shot of bourbon and tried to think. He’d anticipated there would be an investigation, of course. But the gun was at the bottom of Lake Union and without a murder weapon for evidence… Besides, why would he be a suspect, anyway? In any case, he was so well disguised. Wasn’t he? He poured another drink. Maybe Cowl won’t make it. But what if he does? Christ, would he be able to identify me? No. Impossible. But the uniform. What if he remembers the uniform? What if they find out no real UPS delivery was made to his house? They’d know it was someone disguised as a UPS driver. A fake uniform. Could they track that down?
All the little details that had never even entered his mind now had his synapses firing in rapid succession. The more he thought about it the more paranoid he became. The more paranoid he became the more he drank. Shortly after midnight his garbled thoughts trickled off into an alcohol-induced sleep populated by faceless demons, police in UPS uniforms, and occasional glimpses of his son, far in the distance, reaching out to him, pleading to be forgiven for taking his own life.
CHAPTER 40: The Next Day…
Rye Cowl lay unconscious in the hospital as a hooded figure entered the center of the Lucifer Seal on the floor of the Inner Sanctum and lit the candles in preparation for the sacrifice.
***
Kane sent Wheeler and Detective Moreno on their way after assigning them the task of investigating the prayer group that had been organized by the members of the victim’s families. Having no other leads as to who may have shot Cowl, the relatives of the victims seemed like a logical place to start.
***
Harlan Bodine awakened from his nightmarish sleep with a throbbing headache and bloodshot eyes but he had a clear vision of what he had to do. He had a little money saved up. Not much, but enough to get him somewhere, anywhere, and the sooner the better. He threw on his clothes, pulled his suitcase out from under the bed and started packing.
***
Kane handed Ravenwood a fresh cup of coffee. “Donut?”
“No, thanks. Trying to watch the pounds.”
He laughed. “Like you have pounds to lose.”
“Why, thank you, Lieutenant.”
“For what?”
“For the compliment. That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”
“I dunno.” He dunked a donut into his coffee. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“I mean this is the day. My money says no eighth victim today. Cowl’s out cold in a hospital bed with plenty of people keeping an eye on him. I’m betting it’s over. At least until he wakes up. If he ever does wake up.”
Ravenwood nodded. “True, but I think I’ll wait until I hear the Fat Lady sing.”
“Come on. If the day passes with no incident then we know it has to have been Cowl, right? He’s our man.”
“You think so and I think so. But what have we got, really? Where’s the proof? I mean, suppose he does wake up. What are we going to do? Arrest him? On what charges? Besides, you know there isn’t a prosecutor in the country who would be dumb enough to take the case even if it did go to trial. I can see it now. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the state intends to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this man killed those preachers by means of a doppelganger projected from his subconscious mind.’ If the judge didn’t throw the case out right then and there, the jury would find Cowl not guilty based on reasonable doubt alone.”
Kane sat back in his chair and groaned. “Yeah, I know. But there’s got to be some way. Something we haven’t thought of. Some piece of evidence we missed.” He studied the donut crumbs floating in his coffee. Suddenly he stood up and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go back to his house and have another look.”
“CSI team went over the place with a fine tooth comb after Cowl was taken to the hospital. All they came away with was a half-smoked joint in an ashtray and the bullet that was lodged in the wall. What do you expect to find?”
“Whatever they missed.”
***
The hooded figure lit the eighth candle.
CHAPTER 40: Thirty Minutes later…
The old manor was still cordoned off with yellow tape. Kane drove around to the back and parked in the alley to avoid drawing any undue attention.
Ravenwood stepped out and lowered her sunglasses. “Place looks as miserable from the back as it does from the front.”
Kane came around to join her. “Worse.”
They walked over to the gate of the chain-link fence at the edge of the property. The rusted gate resisted Kane’s attempt to open it.
Ravenwood nudged him aside. “Let me try.”
Kane looked away for a moment so he wouldn’t have to watch her embarrass herself. When he looked back, the gate was open. “Let me guess. Black magick.”
“The latch.”
“What?”
She pointed to a small, spring-loaded object attached to the side of the gate. “You have to pull the latch.”
“I knew that.”
Kane led the way, stomping a path through the waist-high overgrowth that lined the entire length of the fence. Ravenwood followed behind. About three feet into the yard, they stopped and surveyed the property. Kane noticed the deteriorating garden shed just to their right and walked over to it.
“I bet nobody bothered to check this out,” he said.
Ravenwood walked over to join him. “Why would they?”
“Exactly.”
“After you,” Ravenwood said.
Kane pushed the door open, found the light switch and stepped inside.
Ravenwood peeped her head in. “Is it safe?”
“Looks like it. Doesn’t smell so good. There’s a dead rat over
in the corner. Watch your step.”
Ravenwood entered the shed. “Cozy. Looks like a bunch of–– Whoa!” The heel of her shoe sank into a crack in the floor between two loose boards. She lost her balance and toppled backward.
Kane swerved around just in time to catch her before she hit the wall. He held her for a moment with one arm firmly wrapped around her waist. “You all right?”
She straightened up and brushed a tangle of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah. Thanks. Damn.” She looked down to see what had caught her heel. “There’s something under there.”
Kane knelt down and pulled the boards away. “An old metal box. Copper, I think. It’s empty. The hasp has been twisted up pretty bad.”
Ravenwood noticed a padlock on the floor next to one of the loose boards. “Look at this. Looks like it was cut with a hacksaw.”
Kane looked around and spied a rusty hacksaw blade. He picked it up and examined it. “This thing wouldn’t cut a block of cheese. If this is what was used to cut that lock then somebody had a hell of a lot of patience.”
“Or was just awfully damned curious to find out what was inside the box.”
“Hey, wait a minute. What’s this?” He picked up one end of a length of rope. The other end was tied to an eyehook screwed into a large square plank on the floor. He tugged on the rope and lifted the edge of the plank.
Ravenwood’s eyebrows lifted along with it. “A trapdoor.”
“Brilliant deduction, Watson.” He opened it all the way, pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it into the void. He turned and looked at Ravenwood. The expression he saw on her face was exactly like that of his daughter when she was five years old and had just witnessed their cat giving birth to three kittens. “You up for a little adventure?”